


broken foundations (for broken friendships)

by LorienofLoth



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Careers (Hunger Games), Careers Have Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorienofLoth/pseuds/LorienofLoth
Summary: Sometimes there are no easy choices; sometimes your friends would gouge your eyes out with a rusty fork if it would loosen the noose around their necks. Sometimes you'd do the same to them.





	broken foundations (for broken friendships)

**Author's Note:**

> Standard fandom archive warnings apply, and I have discovered, apropos of nothing as far as I can tell, that I have strong feelings about this friendship. Who knew?

No-one makes decisions like a Victor. That’s the base of it. Other people don’t know how they decide these things; other people don’t know they’d rather smash a kid’s head upon the rocks, or slit their throat, or strangle them, than die. Not for sure. And sometimes decisions must be made.

  
And yet.

  
And yet and yet and yet.

  
Throwing a spear through the chest of a thirteen-year-old you first met days prior isn’t the same as smiling at someone you’ve known a decade and leaving them in the cold. Saving your country—your district—your family—your soul—isn’t the same as saving your life.

  
And yet.

  
And yet and yet and yet.

  
He was fifteen on his Victory Tour and putting all of his training into not flinching when someone stroked his arm (his chest, his thigh, hands roving and cupping and never ever ever losing his oh-so-charming smile), fifteen when he reached the Capitol after weeks of hatred and indifference and deep blazing fury. Fifteen when he was shown photos of Haymitch Abernathy’s mother and brother and girl back home, as the President enquired politely after his brother’s fishing boat, his mother’s illness, his sister’s new baby. Fifteen when he was introduced to the Deputy Head Gamemaker, the Minister for Trade, the Dean of the city’s premier design school.

  
He was fifteen when he stood in front of a mirror in the District 4 suite and saw endless hands on his body, saw his sea-glass eyes, his smile (I knew I wanted you to win as soon as I saw you smile) and hands, hands that had once dripped blood and now hung useless and empty at his side, unable to rub the sheen (the scars) of the Capitol off him.

  
He was fifteen when he went to the lounge to find—a drink? A line? A knife? —Gloss, who dragged him to a training room and threw him a sword. He had never loved swords, but that was probably for the best; Gloss had favoured a sword, and was handsome, and a Career.

  
People don’t win the Games by being boring.

  
Careers don’t win by being mediocre with swords either; he sliced Gloss’ chest, was met by a riposte, blocked again and again until his arm was aching, blood dripping into his eyes from a cut in his brow, thrusted at Gloss’ throat as he kicked his knee and they dropped their swords and started fighting, and it was hard and dirty and nasty. He slammed his forehead into Gloss’ nose and felt it break, had his shoulder pulled and dislocated and rolled away spitting blood.

  
They slumped at last, exhausted and bloody, and he relaxed when he saw his reflection in the mirrors that lined the studio: his cheek was bruised; his tooth chipped; and his face was bloody. He looked like the monster who had walked out of the Arena.

  
(He was fifteen the first time they booked him and Gloss for a doubles session.)

He was eighteen the first time he and Cashmere were together in Mentor Command, his Adrina and her Tourmaline in the Final Eight, flirting around a campfire while Tourmaline’s district partner sliced open the Nine girl in the background. He was nineteen when Adrina—wicked smile and a way with a flail like no-one else in the district—died in a trap set by the girl from Five, a tiny thing who had crawled around the tunnels of the Arena without much attention from anyone, tributes and mentors alike.

  
He was eighteen when he drew glasses onto a mannequin and Cashmere stuck a ball of brown wool above each ear and they took it in turns to fling knives at it (eye, eye, heart, crotch) before she grabbed a mace off the wall and slammed it into the mannequin again and again and again, until it was barely more than kindling, and then he pulled the matches out of her pocket and set the remains on fire and they watched them burn together.

  
(He wasn’t eighteen for his first doubles session with Cashmere.)

He was twelve when he watched the Games for the first time after a Reaping Day where he had stood in the main square, knowing his name could be drawn. He was twelve when he watched her giggle and flirt for the cameras, as his classmates scoffed at her interview, where she blew a kiss to the handsome boy from Ten and promised to kiss him before she cut his heart out.

  
He was twelve when he watched her press a deceptively muscled arm across Ten boy’s chest, holding her knife in his guts with the other hand, as she leant over and kissed him long and hard, before jerking the knife up once, brutally. She smeared his blood on her lips before she turned away and rejoined the Pack, and he knew she was going to win. When, three days later, she sliced open the boy from Two after the final confrontation and stood back and laughed as he gasped and choked in the mud, he knew he could do the same.

He was seventeen when he bumped into Gloss, dazed and alone in a random corridor at an extremely exclusive soiree. Gloss’ pupils were wide and his lips were bloody and he wouldn’t stop shaking as he was dragged to the bathroom, where he stuck a finger down Gloss’ throat, and dodged the instant retaliatory backhand (reflexes like that will save your life)(reflexes like that will get you killed), before pouring him a glass of water and settling down to stroke his hair. Gloss vomited three more times that night, at the end doing nothing more than retching bile, which slipped down his chin and crusted around his mouth, a far cry from the handsome young man who had stood on stage and grinned lazily as he promised that although he wasn’t quite as exciting as his sister, he could still provide a good show.

  
He was seventeen when the President commented on his absence from the season’s hottest party and wondered if his niece would like to come and attend the parties instead.

He was twenty-four when he wandered down to the poisons counter, instead of over to where Cashmere and Gloss were playing with knives (that’s why you always aim for the eye Cashmere told him, with a spun-sugar smile, as they watched the 68th together wrapped in blankets), and he was twenty-four when he smiled his friendliest smile at the outlying Victors in the training room (did yours manage to scare the meat, Gloss asks with a vicious grin as they walk away from the Parade, Nico and Lux behind them, and the tributes from 10, 11, 12 still in earshot), and he was twenty-four when he chose as he always chose.

  
He was twenty-four when he chose to win.


End file.
